


Black and White and Red All Over

by flight815kitsune



Category: South Park
Genre: Crack Pairing, High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 15:25:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flight815kitsune/pseuds/flight815kitsune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The saying was "Familiarity breeds contempt". So why does Pip seem to look better the more Dylan sees him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I will be using what seem to be the fandom standards for the names of currently unnamed canon characters: "Dylan" for the Red Goth, "Evan" for the Tall Goth, and "Georgie" for the Kindergoth.
> 
> Dylan's POV
> 
> Kind of patched together/drabble-y.

Our lockers are beside each other, and he deemed it appropriate to introduce himself despite the fact that we’ve shared a few classes over the years.

“I guess we’re neighbours now.” That all-too-broad smile, the hand stretched out in a gesture of greeting. “My name’s Phillip, but everyone calls me Pip because they hate me.”

I don’t shake it, just sigh and return to forcing a textbook I probably won’t ever use to fit in the tiny compartment that was obviously designed when books were smaller. I guess I shouldn’t call him Pip, then.

*

“Hey.” I catch him entering the cafeteria. “I fell asleep in math. I need tomorrow’s assignment?”

He wears this pleasant smile like he gets asked this sort of thing every day. He’s not stupid, but I wouldn’t think that the blonde would be the smart kid everyone would turn to for help. Then again, he acts friendly to everyone even though they treat him like shit all day every day, so maybe they just know he won’t turn them away and that’s why someone would just assume that he’d help them. I did.

He sets his bag down on my table. I never really saw the appeal of messenger bags myself. I have had the same backpack since 7th grade, though. So maybe I’m just attached to it and the stitches and duct tape holding it together.

He pulls out a notebook and flips a few pages. He tears out the page and hands it to me. All the work is done, with page numbers, question numbers, and lettered sections done in pen and the work done in pencil. He packs everything away and migrates to his usual spot a few tables away.

I grab a pen from the pit that is my backpack. Scrawl the numbers of the pages and problems on my hand. I need to get in line for a drink and something to snack on, so I drop off the paper on my way past.

“Thanks.”

“You aren’t…?”

I flash the back of my hand, covered in blue ink. “Got it.” And he looks so confused. “It was faster to just write it this way.” I bet he uses one of those planners. Conformist.

*

I walk into the men’s room in the science wing. The whole area stinks of embalming fluid; the bio department is doing their annual dissections. I know I can sneak a cigarette inside today. It wouldn’t be worth going outside in the freezing cold, but I figure I can miss a few minutes of “Why women’s suffrage was a good thing” and get a bit of nicotine in an area unlikely to be used. The wonderful thing about dissection time was that the guys stayed in class and even those faculty members who are supposed to be watching the halls for truants and other villains of the same caliber tried to stay as far from the smell as possible.

It’s not that bad.

The familiar blonde figure is perched on the edge of the sink, staring into a mirror that isn’t there. It’s been gone for at least as long as I’ve attended this school. One knows where reflective surfaces are when an easily smudge-able black cosmetic product is put on a part of the body that frequently gets touched. Even with years of practice avoiding touching it, my eyeliner seems to always get ruined by halfway through the day..

All that is there is the tan outline of dried glue, but he stares like he can see his own reflection. A reddish mark on his jaw might be a wicked bruise by tomorrow. No words, just maintaining the silence until I flick the spent butt into the toilet and return to the mockery of the educational system.

*

Two months since the divorce. That was fine; we’d all seen it coming. I’m surprised they lasted as long as they did. Evan knew from the first time he saw them talk to each other. It was nice to have someone to lean on who’d seen it all before. He taught me how to deal with the drama. Dad lived nearby, and visited pretty much whenever he felt like it. And he seemed to think that stuff would make me like him better.

And that tools would make me straight, but that’s a different issue altogether.

“Happy birthday!”

A car. Awesome. Though, it’s not the prettiest…or newest…

Oh well, a car’s a car, right?

“Me and your mother came to an agreement on the insurance and everything, so you don’t have to worry about that”.

A few years were fine.

Maybe more than a few years. Older than me. Old enough that my dad had probably driven a car much like it when he was younger.

Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. You’re getting a CAR for your birthday. Besides, if he wanted to save a few bucks on insurance, that was understandable. Maybe it was nostalgic for him or something. The bastard had a smile when he gave it to me, or was that a smirk?

“I know she’s not in the best shape, but she’s not doing too bad. Figured it’d be a good thing not to have to worry about cosmetic damage.”

The paint is probably the only thing holding it together. Good thing the orange color is only a shade lighter than the rust.

Doesn’t matter. Just has to get me from point A to B.

It looks like a kid tried to glue post-its together in the shape of a car…

Like a Jeep mated with a dumpster…

“What is it?”

The soft tone of my voice must be mistaken for wonder. He claps me on the shoulder “It’s a Volkswagen.”

“It’s not as…round as I usually see with Volkswagens.”

“‘Course not. This isn’t your average bug. This is a Thing!”

It’s so ugly they didn’t even bother with a cool name…

He dangles the keys in front of me. “Wanna give her a drive?”

Smile, take the keys. This is your ride, now.

Hug him. “Thanks.” He’ll appreciate that.

It’s a piece of shit, but it’s mine.

*

He’s in the bathroom by himself again. He isn’t nursing any injuries that I can see, so at least the abuse was verbal this time.

I light up, leaning on the tiled wall beside the sink. “What did they say?”

“He said my parents are better off dead than having a child like me.”

Ouch.

He steals my smoke after I take a drag. I’m taken aback by the audacity of it, but I don’t care; it’s nothing the rest of my group doesn’t do to each other. I exhale slowly, giving him a chance to share. He makes an awkward face, but at least he doesn’t make a fool out of himself by coughing. So you’ve smoked before? I wouldn’t have expected that.

“Maybe they are better off dead, but not because of you.” I steal it back. “The entire world’s gone to shit. They’re better off gone than with a future surrounded by conformist assholes like whoever said that to you.”

*

I sit next to him in class. Right at the beginning. The teacher has never assigned seats before now, and I’ve chosen to remind her of that fact should she try to relocate me. The guy two seats down (Tom? Todd?…doesn’t matter. Why should I learn their names when they don’t know mine?) is watching me. Us. He can’t seem to decide if he wants to try and relocate, too. God forbid someone invade his fucking bubble. 

The blonde is trying his best to ignore me, and failing horribly. Despite having his nose buried in a book, I catch the glances and the slightest tint of red in his cheeks.He won’t say anything, though. Too polite.

Mrs. Smith eyes the class, stack of fresh copies in hand. Counting to see if she brought enough copies of the quiz. or busywork. I have done more of those math problems coded to reveal horrible puns than anyone outside of elementary school ever should.

She pouts when she spies me. Spies me here.

Rather than ask me to move, though, she hands out the papers. Doesn’t even ask why I’d suddenly move up two rows in fucking FEBRUARY. Or why the person I chose to sit by is clearly not entirely comfortable with this.

Because it’s time for a quiz.

The T guy doesn’t even bother trying to look off of my paper, although I know for a fact he regularly copies Pip’s. I don’t know if I should be insulted or glad. He either thinks that I can’t master simple stats, doesn’t want to risk me catching him because he knows I would raise hell, or simply respects me enough to not attempt it.

Bullshit.

*

He trudges alongside the road in the snow and slush, in a sweater and no coat. At least the hat is keeping icicles from forming in his hair.

“Hey. Get in.” I pull up in the car my worthless father gave me in an attempt to buy my affection, window rolled down and wipers going.

He looks at me like I’m talking to myself.

“Hurry up.” I flip my hair. I don’t want the seats ruined by snow.

He obeys, but there’s a wariness in his eyes like he expects it to be a trap. Like I would speed away and spray him with slush. Or like I would abduct and kill someone at 4 pm on a Thursday.

Murder is best done on the weekends; it takes longer for people to realize you’re missing.

I reach down to crank the window back up and he climbs in. When he’s buckled himself in, I ask “Where do you live?”

Now the look is more like I’m going to rob him.

“I’m trying to be fucking friendly and give you a ride.” A sigh and another flip.

“Oh…right.” He reluctantly give the address.

When I pull up, the snow has turned to half-frozen rain. Half thawed sleet. Whichever way that would go. It’s a shower of hypothermia waiting to happen. If I had an umbrella, I’d offer it.

He goes for the handle as the precipitation pounds the roof.

“Wait until it slows down, at least.”

“I really don’t want to be a burden…” He doesn’t make eye contact, staring at his shoes the whole time.

“Ugh.” I can’t help but sneer. Just like a whipped dog. I’m half disgusted and half sympathetic. Part of me wants to hit him but that isn’t quite what happens.

I grab his shirt. Of course it’s button down and collared. A fucking symbol of what’s right and proper, tie and all. Conformity to a corporate sector he isn’t even a slave of yet. I pull him closer and I know there’s still a glare because of the fear in his eyes. My heart’s beating wildly. I know why people mess with him now. That fear is intoxicating. He squeezes his eyes shut, some mixture of defense and resignation in his brow.

I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t rough, but it’s probably much softer than expected. A hard kiss had to be better than a fist. His lips part in what I assume is a gasp and I deepen it, take things further. For no longer than a heartbeat, he’s there. Fingers in my hair and small sounds of wanting. There’s a chuckle in my throat and he pushes me away. Hard. My head cracks against the roof, clacking my teeth down onto my tongue, and he makes his escape. The door slams and he bolts into his house, stopping only to fumble with his keys.

The throbbing in the back of my skull and ache in my mouth demands that I don’t try to follow him.

Smooth.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so there's interest in this? I can try to finish it

The next day at school he tries to ignore me with the same Stepford smile he’s always worn. It has to be fake. There’s no way someone can put up with this kind of shit every day and smile like that.  And now, he’s just going to smile and nod and pretend that I didn’t cross a line yesterday. It pisses me off.

I... like it, actually. It was something to break up the constant monotony of trudging through this bullshit every day. It was a spark to cling to. It’s hard to stay dead. For better or worse, he’s knocked me out of whatever funk I was in. Figure I should return the favor.

“Blondie?”

The polite smile was _gone_. Its replacement was a straight line that turned up at the edges and didn’t even attempt to reach his eyes. He stares at a notebook like he’s debating whether or not to take it. He’s trying to ignore me.

Not that being ignored was unusual. Some people ignored those who walked around in dark clothes like we blended into the shadows or something. But for every person that acted like you didn’t exist there was someone who focused on the clothes and hair and makeup like keeping an eye on us would keep us from sacrificing their cat, or whatever it is they think we do for fun.

The hand he grabs the notebook with grips it just a little too tight.

Interesting. “Yoo-hoo? Blondie?”

“Yes?” The word is sharp. I wasn’t expecting that.

Wow. He’s pissed off. Not bad at hiding it, but maybe I did get under his skin pretty good. I want curiosity more than a fight. So I apologize.

“I realize that you were probably taken by surprise with the whole kissing thing. My bad.”

He glares as his face turns the brightest shade of pink I think I’ve ever seen on a person outside of Georgie’s tragic sunburn incident a couple of summers ago.

“I’ll keep my hands to myself, if you ever want a ride again.” I can place the smell now. Lavender. That’s what that smell is. Fucking Lavender. Isn’t that supposed to be a girly thing?

He takes a step back, and I hadn’t realized that I had moved in so close. His fingertips are on his lips and I wish that I could read his thoughts. Fuck, maybe he _is_ interested.

He escapes into the mess of people walking by.

-*-

When I go to jam my history book back into my locker, a note falls out. It was a crisp piece of notebook paper perfectly folded into that stupid arrow you would never expect to see from someone who wasn’t a fourteen year old girl. The writing could have come out of a printer it was so fucking perfect. Not the usually lazy, loopy scrawls I’m used to.  I pick it up off the cheap imitation tile that floors the hallways and unfold it. It’s an apology. A written apology. For freaking out about a kiss. This is insane. No one should ever even _think_ of apologizing for denying someone like that.

But at the bottom is his phone number and yeah, I smile at that. I put the note into the pocket on the side of my backpack that was originally meant for a water bottle and head to art.

-*-

When I reach my car after school, he’s waiting.

-*-

The drives home are sort of awkward, forced small talk peppered with breaks of silence.

 The salt, snow, and gravel crunching under the tires is the only real noise. He stares at his feet, and never tries to open the door without saying, “Thank you.”

-*-

There’s the clatter of books to the floor. The papers sliding across the linoleum are audible in the silence. There’s a group of people, but none of them are doing anything. They’re just staring. Fucking sheep. A familiar voice growls the word “Faggot.”

Someone wants to start some shit.

When I hear the crack of a hit, I push through the crowd.

He was on hands and knees. The contents of his messenger bag were scattered all over the place. Some sophomore from my gym class was wearing a sneer.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

When he turns to me I am struck by the startling realization that I was the one to ask the stupidest question of the day.

“What are you, his little boyfriend?”

“Aww baby, you know your ass is the only one for me.”

The pause before I got hit sucked. Getting hit was worse.

It wasn’t a fight so much as me getting kicked until a teacher tried to push his way through and the guy took off.

He looked at me like it was all my fault, and I didn’t try to change his opinion by saying what happened. Pip had already made his escape.

At the end of the day, he wasn’t waiting for a ride.

-*-

Henri heard what had happened and told Evan. Who wasn’t sure if he should be disappointed I couldn’t hold my own for one fucking minute, disgusted at my behavior, or proud that I didn’t conform.

-*-

He sits next to me in math class. It shouldn’t feel like a victory when that’s the same thing I’ve been doing for the past couple weeks. A dark line where his lip was bleeding was the only indication he’d been hurt at all. I keep staring at it. If we got rough I bet I’d taste blood. Fuck, maybe he’d whimper.

God, maybe he’d push back like he did in the car without trying to get away.

I stop thinking before I turn into a high school movie cliché.

-*-

Ugh. The alarm blares and I feel like shit. My sinuses seem to be fully clogged. My lips are so dry, I've probably been breathing out of my mouth all night.

This has definitely not helped my throat at all.

Everything's so hot and this is bullshit.

Head down to the kitchen. Grab some cough medicine from the cupboard and gulp straight from the bottle. End up asleep on the couch.

 

My stupid cheap-ass prepaid phone embarks on a long journey across the coffee table.

Fuck, what time is it?

the TV is some daytime show where women yell at men and paternity tests are handed out like candy. What our society has used technology for.

Pick up the phone, but it's stopped vibrating. Three missed calls, two from Henri and one that might be Evan's new work number. It’s vaguely familiar and I'm pretty sure that had a bunch of fives in it.

It's 3:30. I lost the day. Looking out the window, it was probably for the best. The snow is flying.

The answering machine light is blinking from across the room. Or course that phone is charging. Decide that it might be important. I leave the sofa and press the blinking red button.

"Honey? You home? Okay... Someone never showed up for their shift. I'm going to be staying late, and Marie's coming in early.  If the pizza place is still delivering later, we can do that for dinner. Love you."

Staring at the coffee maker for far too long.

The doorbell snaps me out of it.

When I go to the door the wind is whipping the flakes around.

He’s standing there. 


	3. Chapter 3

I stare while he fights the weather in an attempt to access the contents of his bag.

After the wind nearly tears the papers from his hands, I invite him in.

Sort of.

I sigh and return to the coffeemaker, leaving the door wide open and he puts two and two together and comes inside.  He taps the snow off of his shoes. It really was a mess out there. He had walked from the school to my house in weather like this?

 I pour what I can into a mug, I’ll need the caffeine for this. It burns it’s way down my throat. Hot and bitter and perfect.

when I return to the living room, he’s perched on the couch. The contents of his bag are in organized piles. That bag has a lot of space.

I sink into the cushions, letting my head fall back. The mug warms my hands.

 

He touches my face and brings me back to the world.

He’s worried.

I stare at his face for way too long before I realize that he’s talking. Says that I’m burning up. I shrug him off and try to take a gulp of my coffee.

It’s not hot anymore.

 

He follows me when I go to the kitchen to take some Tylenol and refill my mug.

“You picked a shitty day to visit.” I sigh.

“I brought your homework.”

Who the fuck does that? What decade was he from?

 

“…Thanks.”

 

He goes to leave and the wind is vicious. I wouldn’t ask anyone to walk in that. “I would offer to drive you, but I think I’m snowed in until March. Is there anyone you can get a ride from?”

He shakes his head with that same fucking smile on his face. The one that isn’t as good of a mask as he seems to think it is. But his “I wouldn’t want to risk their safety for my sake” is genuine.

“Then I guess you’re staying here, because you aren’t going out in that.” I was expecting to do a modern day non-sung version of Baby, It’s Cold Outside, but he goes along with it.

 

He used the house phone to call home and they were apparently relieved that he wasn’t dead in a snowbank somewhere.

 

When we’ve spent some awkward silence staring at each other from opposite sides of the couch, I came to realize he was drenched from the melted snow. He accepted an offer of something dry to change into. My shirt clung to him. He wore a pair of my mom’s scrub pants because mine were too small. I’ve never seen a shirt with that much carnage worn with pants that pale color of green before. He tossed his stuff into the dryer. We watched bad movies and ate peanut butter sandwiches. I was half asleep on the couch the entire time. When my mom got home from work the next morning, she drove him home.

He actually seemed sad to go.

-*-

“So. You spent the night with Pip?” Evan seemed confused more than anything.

“I was sick. He was…him. Nothing happened.”

“Did you want something to happen?”

I shrug. Only in retrospect did it feel like I had missed out on something. Like I should have put my arm around him when we sat beside each other. Like I should have let touches and gazes linger. Like I should have kissed him again and seen how he reacted. Like I should have tried to catch him changing rather than avert my eyes. Stare at my shoes.

 “You want to sleep with him.” It wasn’t a question.

“It’s not like that.”

“So what, you _don’t_ want to fuck him?”

“I didn’t say that. It’s… different.” I flick my hair out of my face.

“Good luck.”

-*-

Turns out, that kid from my gym class can hold a grudge.

 My face hurts, and it's hard not to blame him. Why the hell am I doing this?

They confront me about it at the end of the day. Getting into fights for and beside them is one thing...this is something else.

Henri hands me a tissue. I can taste the blood on my tongue from my lip. I hate it. Not saying I don't deserve it, but I loathe it.

“Come on, Zelda. You’re going to be late for class.”

“Link.” I smile. I know it probably looks as crazy as it feels. “Link’s the hero.”

I’m late to class. My fault for fucking with the status quo.

_*_

After school he stares. He doesn’t ask any questions, he doesn’t make any comments. He simply stares.

_*_

He talks about his family in math.

Apparently he has a bad track record in having living family and got stuck in the foster care system. He has younger siblings. One boy, one girl. While his parents aren’t strict, they aren’t very lax, either. When he talks about them, there’s a hint of a smile.

A real one.

_*_

How I had been persuaded to play with those stupid, untalented, emo-ass poseurs was beyond me.

It was hot, the area they expected me to play in was cramped and one saw better stage lighting in an elementary school production. The singer was a dick; every flaw he managed to find, which seemed to measure in the hundreds, was everyone’s fault but his own. Not that the crowd would have cared. They wouldn’t have been able to comprehend good music if it slapped them in the face and then proceeded to explain itself using small words. Two people tried to start a pit, which only led to some chick’s shirt being torn, a lost shoe, and two less people in the dwindling audience.

I didn’t want to drive. I didn't want to blow any of the whole twelve dollars burning a hole in my pocket to get a cab home. Being drenched in sweat and water from crumpled plastic bottles with one hell of a freezing-cold trek home sort of eliminated the walking option.

But…a familiar blond had come to my rescue. About time someone else was the knight in shining armor. He had been dropped off, if the lack of cars in the lot were any indication, and must have waited after the show. He had been a nice sight, leaned against the piece of shit car lit only by a streetlamp. Every breath was a personal cloud. If you didn’t know him, one could imagine he was smoking. Not that I’ve never seen him smoke. Just...he doesn’t look like the type to buy his own. The collared shirt didn’t seem half as corporate when it was half unbuttoned.  A grey undershirt was underneath, a hint of darkness suited for blending into the night. His tie hung loose around his neck, an undone fragment of color held captive by a starched collar and what had to be the owner’s desire to keep it there. His hair a loose mess, perhaps his hat had not obeyed those same desires. He looked for all the world like he belonged and perhaps he did.

The bass is a burden; I half drag it to the car. The sight of him had nearly made me abandon it. An urge to run, fuck what my body wanted. Toss the instrument aside and live a little.

I might have a problem when it comes to him.

“You got a license?” Ignoring the jump. Shirt clinging like a second skin. The cold was refreshing in a way. Probably the only reason I hadn't completely lost my head yet.

“Yes?”

I toss him the keys. I throw the case in the backseat and take shotgun.

“Drive me home?” The stream rolls off the drenched material how one would imagine an aura would. Enveloped in silver-white. I cast it into the abyss of the back seat. ”Or at least to your place? My head is killing me…”

He sits in the driver's seat but stops before putting the keys in the ignition. "I can't drive a stick."

Awesome. So my choices are to teach him or wait. Though I doubt he would damage anyone or anything, I go with wait.

“Just give me a minute.” I breathe out. I think I’m going through caffeine withdrawal, if the flare of temper and headache are any indication. I should have Coke in the back, if it hasn’t exploded.

“You want a drink?”

“Sure, thank you.”

I dig through the clothes, paper, and various pieces of garbage on the floor to find it. The cardboard is already torn, I pull out two aluminium cans. Close it. Here’s to hoping they aren’t frozen solid.

Hand him a can. Pop the tab of my own and gulp most of it down. It’s half ice. Fucking amazing.

He sips his politely.

 

“Did you enjoy the show?” may as well try for small talk.

“It was nice. I enjoyed the band who played before yours.”

“You didn’t like us, did you?”

He doesn’t know what to say to that.

I finish off the can. “It’s alright. I could tell things weren’t going very well.” Toss it into the back. I’ll get it later.

Lay back in the seat and close my eyes. Sigh.

“You and the drummer were fine...but the vocalist...”

I have to laugh. “I know.”

“Then why do you play with him?”

“I don’t want my skills to get rusty, and there aren’t a ton of options in a town like this.”

“Oh.”

 

I open my eyes and catch him staring. He catches me catching him and takes another small sip.

“You don’t like Coke, do you?”

It’s like the band question all over again.

“You’re a Pepsi person.”

“Yes.”

Should have known he’d go for something sweeter.

I take the can from him and gulp it down. He is totally watching me.

May as well go big while he’s here and venture a question I haven’t touched with a ten foot pole since the whole kissing incident. “Do you like guys, Blondie?”

 

No answer for the longest time.

 

I’m almost ready to suggest that I take the wheel when he says “I’m not sure.”

Of course, I don’t think that he isn’t sure. I think that he knows damn well one way or the other and is just not sure what he’s supposed to say.

 

“I can help with that.” It was a joking comment, but I’d be more than happy to.

“You’re the reason it’s even an issue.” His honesty was so fucking _pure_.

_*_

The ride home was quiet, because what the hell could anyone say to that?


End file.
